


philatos, most beloved

by Borashore



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa and Atsumu talk about Patrochilles, Sakusa overthinks, So here we are, Timeskip, Unreliable Narrator, lots of Greek mythology talk, was reading TSOA and got feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borashore/pseuds/Borashore
Summary: Achilles’s heart for Patroclus exists only in fairytales. Philatos is merely a fantasy.And yet when Atsumu brushes a knuckle against his jaw and whispers, “Can I touch?” Kiyoomi falls apart at the seams.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 153
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics, So beautiful It makes me want to cry





	philatos, most beloved

**Author's Note:**

> I started hyper-writing this yesterday and finished it at 2am today. This is purely self-indulgent, so beware the fluff and yearning :))))
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Lily

Kiyoomi never understood the sentimental crises of Greek heroes. 

The tragedies talk of unimaginable bursts of feeling, some manually implemented by the gods themselves, the others fully exploited in the western world with their Hollywood movies, artfully designed to drive a man mad (Heracles comes to mind… poor guy). Emotions… Feelings… Intimate connection… all those elements serve to either tamper with fate or solidify it. Heroes fall, and the first reason one can claim to stand at fault would be they “felt too much”. Kiyoomi can understand that. Most of the time, it’s like he can't put a tap on it whenever he feels his emotions ready to burst at the seams, like a crack in an overflowing dam.

What he can’t understand is feeling too much for someone other than yourself.

Which is why when he hears of Achilles, he falters and scowls. Greek mythology and their gods revolve around the “Extremes”. Human beings feel joy and anger; Gods experience euphoria and rage. This, as a demigod himself, applied to Achilles.

Achilles is a Greek hero, the greatest of them all, and that alone should set Kiyoomi’s head at ease. It doesn't. Even if he can argue that the Trojan War never happened and Achilles wasn’t real, it still didn't satiate Kiyoomi’s uncertainty regarding an aspect of his person. 

Primarily, his childhood friend, most beloved, Patroclus.

There’s no way, Kiyoomi glares at the typewritten words on his coffee-stained, paperback copy. There's no way any person in the whole world, be it real or fictional, would feel so much for someone else, they’d embark on a grief-stricken rage and end, not just the war itself, but the lives of 10,000 innocents. So much they’d pick a fight with a _river_ , looking to die. Because life without the other was too much to bear, so better he be stricken down by the coward prince than push on a life without beloved Patroclus.

Kiyoomi insists the theatrics are excessive. 

His book clamps shut in one swift movement and Kiyoomi stands from his desk. No, a human being isn’t capable of feeling so much for another. It’s a simple fantasy, cooked up to romanticize the idea of wholehearted devotion.

Speaking from firsthand experience, Kiyoomi sincerely believes devotion is as dead as his pet hamster.

So he calls the Iliad out on its bullshit. Makes sure his college professor hears of it too in his essay (Easy A, by the way. Correctly applied grammar does wonders to one’s GPA). He calls out Homer, Plato, Aeschines, hell, even Alexander the Great. Throw in the whole Titanomachy for all he cared. The result was the same.

“Wow, who up and died and made ya the Grinch of love?”

“I never said you could come in and go through my stuff.”

“I mean seriously,” Atsumu continues on, eyebrows furrowing more and more as he keeps flicking through Kiyoomi’s essay pages. Kiyoomi’s eye twitches. “How sad and miserable do ya have to be to write out--”

“Miya, drop the fucking paper.”

“--and I quote, _“The aspect of human emotion ranges on a spectrum that does not abide by the laws of fantasy. It is, by fact, tied to the person who experiences it--”_

“Miya.”

 _“--and not any other external factor. The idea that emotion can grow to such an exaggerated extent within one person in response to the actions of another is, certifiably, fiction.”_ Omi, what the fuck.”

Kiyoomi snatches it out of Atsumu’s hands, glare sharp and withering. He did not need to be lectured over emotions, and _feelings_ from _Miya Atsumu_ of all people. He doesn't have the patience nor the alcohol to deal with it. Why was he in his dorm room anyway? “What are you doing here?”

Atsumu shrugs and folds his arms, leaning his hips back against Kiyoomi’s desk. “Bored as hell. Shoyo and Bokkun went out, Cap’n was stuck in a meetin’, Shion an’ Tomas ditched me, an’ Oliver skipped town, so I figured I’d stop by.”

 _Basically you’re the ultimate rebound._ Kiyoomi frowns deeper. “You could’ve just gone back to your dorm alone.”

One of Atsumu’s fingers picks at his arm. It flexes in response and Kiyoomi pointedly looks away. “Nah, as much as I hate ta admit it, I have more fun over here than over there.” He hums thoughtfully. “Company n’ all that. “

Company? In _his_ alone time? Fuck no. “Out.” Kiyoomi hisses.

Atsumu actually blinks up at him, as if he wasn't aware he was breaching in on the privacy of his (ugh) teammate. “Kickin’ me to the curb, Omi?”

“Ah, so you _are_ capable of interpreting words other than “volleyball” and “dick”.”

A pout. “Grinch.”

_“Out.”_

“No, no, no, wait, hey!” Atsumu’s hands fly out in a flurry and Kiyoomi pauses in his advance if only for the sole sake of avoiding making contact with the damn things. “Listen,” He urges. “How bout ya let me hang out here and— _and--_ ” He raises a pointed finger at Kiyoomi’s grimace. “I won't bother ya! I swear it, I’ll keep my hands ta myself and all that. I’ll be good and stay on the couch, silent and calm. No fussin’! All I want is a lil’ company.”

“No.”

“Please! When have I ever done ya wrong— okay, don’t answer that.”

He feels a headache coming up. “Leave, Miya. I have some reading to catch up on and I won’t be able to concentrate if I have a broken chatterbox attached to my hip. So _go_.”

“But, hey, what if ya need to proofread? Or have any questions? I can help out with that too!”

“That’s what Google’s for.”

“Ya can never trust the Internet these days.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. He’s learned not to trust handsome people who’re prone to spout empty words. “Look—“

“Please.”

(His mom didn’t raise an idiot, but by God, if he wasn’t actually considering his proposition.)

Seconds tick by, tension solidifying on Atsumu’s shoulder every waking breath. Kiyoomi clears his throat. “You’ll be quiet?”

Atsumu beams. “As a mouse!”

More contemplative scowling… Then a sigh. Fuck it. “Fine,” He grits out. “Whatever. Just wash your hands first and don’t touch anything else.” Kiyoomi regards Atsumu’s joyful fist pump and dash down the hall (did he even know where his bathroom was? He’s gonna have to disinfect all the doorknobs again) with a sag of his shoulders and, eventually, drags his legs back to his chair, plopping down once at reach. 

He side-eyes his open tab on his laptop, the word _Philatos_ gleaming tauntingly back at him. 

Philatos. Most beloved. Companion. Dearest. Love. Everything. Patroclus.

“With that look on yer face, I’d think Bokkun sent ya a copy of his design for his and Akaashi”s conjoined tombstone again.”

Kiyoomi's flat stare is met with a wise-crack grin, the object in question currently busy with drying his hands with a paper towel. He was already regretting his decision. “No, he didn’t.”

“Ah well, aren't ya a lucky ducky,” Atsumu walks over and leans close to read up on Kiyoomi’s screen. He dutifully notes the faint waft of citrus exuding from the man and then proceeds to shut out that part of his brain completely. “Whatcha readin’ up on?”

“I thought you said you were gonna be quiet.”

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute! Jus’ humor me for a sec.” Atsumu pauses as he reads some more. “Huh,” He tilts his head and Kiyoomi has no idea what to make of that reaction. “Patroclus? Why’re ya reading up on this guy some more? Didn’t ya decimate ‘em enough with yer essay?” 

“None of your business.” Kiyoomi’s hand moves to pull his laptop screen away but Atsumu protests, reaching out. (no touching, though. He never touches). “Go to the couch or something.”

“Okay, okay, I will. But, can ya answer the question at least?”

“Is it really that important?”

A shrug. “I’ll take whatever new info about ya I can get.” Kiyoomi raises a brow. “Y’know, since yer about as easy to read as a Bible in the dark.” 

“Thin ice, Miya. Thin ice.”

“Okay, fine.” He finally raises his hands in surrender and backs away into the farther side of the room. There, he stops at the foot of Kiyoomi’s dark gray sofa and plops down. “Done. I’ll back off.”

“Good.” Kiyoomi glares one last time, staring for a few more seconds, making sure Atsumu wouldn’t risk any moves. Atsumu stays still, returning his gaze. Psh. Whatever.

He turns back to his laptop, brings it closer, and resumes his reading. Or tries to. Instead he spends another five minutes going over the same sentence over and over again. Frustration picks at his chest as he doubles up his focus, leaning his head on his hand for closer inspection. Except now it’s worse, because he's focusing on being focused instead of shifting that focus into his reading. Fuck.

Kiyoomi growls into the palm of his hand. Bet it was because of the unfamiliar presence in his room. Agitated, he shoots a glance over his shoulder.

Atsumu is snuggled into the corner of the sofa, socked feet atop the cushions, and knees to his chest as he silently reads what is most definitely Kiyoomi’s essay. His hair, no longer the horrid piss-color from high school, swept over his right eyebrow, exposing his forehead and furrowing eyebrows; the smallest of pouts settle on his lips and Kiyoomi wonders again just _what_ had gotten into him recently. Because by all accounts, his behavior doesn't match up with the one he exhibited 10 months ago when he first signed up for the Black Jackals and officially set himself up for a life of stress and bombs of extroverted tendencies. He remembers seeing Atsumu’s face for the first time inside that gym for tryouts and all he had felt then was pure disgust and horror. Now, looking at him curled up comfortably in his couch inside his own dorm, face relaxed and content, all he feels is what he considers a softer version of willingness to submit himself to the man and his overbearing presence. Sitting not even 10 feet away, it’s like Atsumu’s aura has consciously dulled down and curled in on itself to cause the least amount of disturbances possible. It was sort of… cute.

Ah, right. There was also the fact that he might be bearing the smallest flicker of affection towards the setter too.

Of course, it’s not like Kiyoomi actively seeks out to ponder on this one thing, so he ignores it as soon as it pops up and steadily watches Atsumu again. His eyes have lidded and the fingers holding up his head softly tap a rhythm at his temple. He looked at peace. The whole scene painted Kiyoomi a dangerous picture: a future. Domesticity always seemed so far out of reach, to the point where Kiyoomi came to accept he’d never get it. He never dreamed to hope. A germaphobe jerk like him? Dreams weren’t worth the crushing weight of reality.

But _this?_ He wants this.

Atsumu raises his eyes. Brown on ebony, he catches Kiyoomi’s own and raises a brow in silent questioning. Kiyoomi’s gaze lowers then, a pinch of embarrassment dusting at his cheeks (He distantly wishes he’d be wearing one of his masks to hide the evidence), but swiftly schools his face again to voice his thoughts. Why not?

“Miya, have you ever been in love?” 

Atsumu straightens up, arm slacking slightly and essay slapping lightly at his legs in the sudden quiet of the room. There’s no surprise on his features, just a slow blink and a tilt of his head; genuine consideration over his words. Kiyoomi hates how different this man is to the one who performs on the court. But he also likes it a bit more too.

“Is that what’s botherin’ ya?” Is what he asks.

Kiyoomi turns in his seat to face him and folds his arms over the backrest, dropping his chin atop them. “Hm, something like that.”

The essay is gently placed aside and Atsumu moves to cross his legs. “‘Kay, then. Talk.”

Kiyoomi’s lip quirks. “Don’t boss me around.”

The domestic atmosphere breaks at those words and Atsumu glares, face flat. “Well, fuck _me_ , I guess. Don’t talk then. S’not like I wanted to be nice ‘r somethin’.”

Rolling his eyes comes to him as easy as breathing and the scoff that follows rolls through just as quick. “You? Nice? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Fuck you, I can be nice when I wanna be.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’d see it if ya just lemme help ya an’ hear ya out.”

“Well now that you’ve asked so nicely, I don’t want to.”

“Asshole.”

“Jackass.”

“Sea urchin.”

“Piss baby.”

“I hate you.”

“Finally something we can agree on.”

Atsumu groans at the ceiling, allowing the smile Kiyoomi’s been fighting to arise as clear as day. Damn Miya Atsumu and his ability to get under his skin. 

When Atsumu looks back down again, the smile is gone. “Well, fine. If ya won’t babble, I’ll answer yer question. Yeah, I think I’ve been in love before.”

That catches his attention, straightening his spine to a rod. At Kiyoomi’s expectant silence, Atsumu fidgets. Oh, oops. “I see.”

One of Atsumu’s hands moves to scratch at the nape of his neck. “Why’d ya ask, Omi? Ya havin’ girl problems?”

 _No,_ he thinks grimly. _I’m having_ you _problems_. “I--“ He shifts in his seat. “-- I’m having trouble understanding… something.”

“Love?”

“Unparalleled devotion.”

That brings Atsumu to a pause. “Does this have ta do with the ‘ole Patroclus thing?”

Kiyoomi nods. 

“Did ya not like somethin’ about ‘im or is it somethin’ else?”

“I don’t get…” He frowns, thinking his words over closely. He doesn’t think he’s ever spoken so much out loud before. “I don’t get how one person can be so devoted to another. The love, the pain, the rage, the grief… all those feelings, the impossibility of it all bothers me so much.”

Achilles loved Patroclus with heart, body and soul. Halves of a whole, they completed each other. Or so, the writings suggest. It appalls Kiyoomi that people actually buy and work to match the exaggeration of such sentiment. As much as many entertain the notion that it could happen in real life, Kiyoomi simply _can’t._ Because it isn’t _real._ It’s easy to yearn for the unattainable, but damn it if he wasn’t going to bite back were people going to dangle such a dream just out of reach.

Atsumu hums, digesting the information. He tucks his hands between his legs and frowns. “Well, I’m no Achilles, Omi-Omi.” He absently nips at his bottom lip. “But, I get why it’d bug ya. Just like everyone alive today, people like to make things bigger than they are, right? They boast. They lie.”

Right, like stated before, there was the comforting thought that Achilles never existed.That it’s all just that: fiction. And yet…

And yet.

“It’s impossible for one person to give themselves over completely to another.” He says, firm.

“How do ya know that?”

Kiyoomi’s lips press thin. “Are my 23 years of life not enough time to observe and conduct my own hypothesis?”

Atsumu smiles a bit at that. “A hypothesis, sure.” He shrugs and Kiyoomi groans at the sight of smugness sparking in his eyes. “ _But_ not a definitive answer.” 

“I think it’d be valid enough.”

“Have ya ever even left Japan, Omi?”

His cheeks burn at that. Instead of answering, he deflects. “So what, I’m wrong just because my observations don’t cater to yours?”

Atsumu shakes his head, laughing. God, he _hated_ when he laughed like that. It made Kiyoomi loathe the way his heart faltered in its steps and yearned to skip on over and curl up by his side. Despise the reality that he’ll never get the chance to. “Nah, just that you haven’t consulted anyone else _but_ yerself, Omi. A bit dumb of ya, really. I thought ya were the smart one outta the both of us.” 

“I’m telling your brother you said that.” The smug glee bursting in his chest at his aghast expression almost makes the embarrassment worth it. Almost. “Also, I already asked you earlier, Idiot.”

He shakes his head again. “Not tha right question, though.”

Kiyoomi’s lip jot down, confused. 

Atsumu takes the opportunity to pick his essay back into his hands and nestles it comfortably in his lap. He flips the papers open and he lands on a random page. From there, he recites the same quote from earlier. 

_“The aspect of human emotion ranges on a spectrum that does not abide by the laws of fantasy. It is, by fact, tied to the person who experiences it and not any other external factor. The idea that emotion can grow to such an exaggerated extent within one person in response to the actions of another is, certifiably, fiction.”_

Brown eyes flitter back up and there's a strange softness in them that nearly breaks Kiyoomi apart. He doesn’t know what it is, and he thinks he wouldn’t survive the search for the answer. “Ya believe that, Omi?”

Was this a trick question? He wasn’t sure. “Yes.”

Atsumu nods. Then he says, “Well, I think yer wrong.”

He supposes it’s meant to anger him. The effect is the opposite as a fickle, barely there pressure settles in his chest. “Oh?” He breathes.

Another nod and Atsumu continues to eye the print in his hand. “Yeah,” He says. “I don’t think it’s a matter of a chemical reaction… Actually, I think it’s a matter of tha heart.” 

The air continues to build up; Kiyoomi determinedly ignores it. “I don’t follow. That it-- what-- depends on the person? You’re saying there’s actual, real life people out there who willingly burst at the seams in feeling for someone other than themselves? Wholeheartedly? Over their own self? Really, Miya?”

The setter’s fingers gingerly straighten out the creases on the paper. They look soft. “I’m sayin’ that love ain’t no joke.” The essay is put aside once more. “Love is different for ev’ryone. Some feel too strongly, others barely speak it aloud, and less than ‘em actually do somethin’ about it.” His voice is different now. Airy, far away. Kiyoomi’s fingers twitch, desperate to pull him back down to Earth. “People’re different too. Who’s ta say my way is yers? No two brains’re the same, an’ all that. Same goes for hearts, I guess.”

“So you believe Achilles’s storm of emotions wasn’t fictional at all but very, very real?”

“I’m sayin’ it wouldn’t be a reach if it was.”

“I find that hard to believe, honestly.”

“Yer not Achilles, Omi.”

“How about you, then?” Kiyoomi locks his stare firmly on his. The atmosphere has charged up so, so much, the bare minimum could ignite sparks. “Would _you_ let the reigns on your emotions loose in exchange for the presence of another?”

Atsumu strangely stills. “... Yer askin’ honestly?”

For some reason, the question unnerves him. He gulps. “If you’re willing.”

And then Atsumu gifts him a wistful smile, a sudden and sharp contrast to the strike of lightning burning like a solar flare in his eyes. “Omi, I’d set fire to the world for one last kiss goodbye.”

And, God, how do you come back from that?

His voice might have left him. All he can manage is try-- _try--_ to maintain eye contact. But, even that… Even that is slowly shriveling up what little restraint he managed to salvage within. Now, all he feels is want.

Because that alone was proof that his hypothesis was wrong. A fiery strength raging within, fierce, untamable and unstoppable. 

Atsumu was no Achilles, yet his earnestness could rival that of the hero himself. Kiyoomi could call him all the worst insults in the world and they’d probably be true.

But to call Atsumu lackadaisical would prove a sin worthy of any gods’ wrath. 

The strength in his eyes doesn’t fade (in fact, Kiyoomi believes it settles in place, unwilling to move at no man’s word) as he speaks, “Did that answer yer question, Omi?”

The dryness of his throat shouldn't be a surprise. He struggles anyways. “Yes.” All that feeling, all those emotions, heightened at their peak, but for what? For whom? There’s no one else in the room.

Atsumu never dropped his gaze from Kiyoomi. The information scares him.

“Ya think that maybe ya might’ve been wrong? Or does it still bother ya?”

Something clicks into place inside Kiyoomi’s head and, all at once, he’s at war. _Don’t!_ His head screams. _Please, his heart whispers instead, broken from past disuse. _Please, do.__

__

“Speaking something aloud isn’t proof, Miya. If so, I could’ve become a licensed heart surgeon just by saying so.”

__

“So, what then?” Atsumu asks. “Ya don’t believe me and I’m wrong because of it?”

__

“No,” Kiyoomi grits out. Atsumu is still aiming all that fire at him. “No, that’s not it.”

__

“Maybe it’s not that you don’t believe me.” He says. “Maybe ya just don't know how ta distinguish one from the other.”

__

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Of course I can differentiate devotion over anything less.”

__

“Really?” Atsumu narrows his eyes, which is already dangerous enough. “Alright then,” He suddenly stands and, in four swift steps, he’s centimeters away from Kiyoomi’s face, hands placed on either side of him at his desk.

__

Kiyoomi can’t breathe for so many reasons other than his mysophobia. “Miya.”

__

“Tell me, Omi.” His voice is small between them, yet somehow it shakes Kiyoomi down to his core. His eyes keep a firm grasp on his own, insisting. He doesn’t really want them to stray either. “Tell me, which is this?”

__

_This,_ he says, as if it were that simple. _This. Which is this?_

__

Frightened, Kiyoomi doesn’t find himself eager to answer. One or the other, it jeopardizes something he’s learned to hold dear. His relationship with the setter and his own fragile heart. He’d have to choose.

__

So he chooses not to. He looks away.

__

“Kiyoomi.”

__

“It’s misplaced.” Is what he says, because it’s the only truth he can muster. “It’s all misplaced and wasted, Miya.”

__

The blonde keeps silent, maybe— God forbid— hurt, and so does Kiyoomi. He’s said what he could. Maybe now that he’s managed to salvage what little he could, he can just pretend to look at the time and kick Atsumu out. That’d give them both enough time to recover and return to their ridiculously stupid and frustrating routine the next morning.

__

Achilles’s heart for Patroclus exists only in fairytales. Philatos is merely a fantasy.

__

And yet when Atsumu brushes a knuckle against his jaw and whispers, “Can I touch?” Kiyoomi falls apart at the seams.

__

The same fire under Atsumu’s eyelids burn on his lips when he swoops downwards and presses a kiss on his. Encompassing and suffocating, the heat of it all grows palpable. So naturally, Kiyoomi reaches out to grasp and pull to his chest. He wants, wants, wants and Atsumu gives. Fully, wholeheartedly.

__

Achilles’s heart for Patroclus may exist only in fairytales, but Atsumu’s incinerates with a force so true, it could manage to break past any barriers and touch the ends of reality; the beginning of abstract thought, idea and perception.

__

And Kiyoomi can only stand in the inferno and burn. 

__

With a sigh, a grip, a second kiss pushing against him and a hand tangling in his hair, he thinks he might understand the hero now. The joy, the pain, the rage, the grief... Kiyoomi would do it all.

__

This comes to him an hour later, reading discarded in favor of spending their time gone on each other. Laying on the couch, resting soundly, nose buried in golden hair and a hidden smile straining his lips, he thinks, _Oh. I see._

__

A hand in Atsumu’s hair, it’s easy to imagine laurels tangled through the locks, threaded dutifully and expertly in a way that would adorn him nothing less than a prince; imagine an unforgiving summer sun shining onto his bare back, flushing his tan skin into a gleaming bronze, worthy of Hephaestus’s blacksmith, and a lavender breeze, a work of Boreas, brushing over their faces, because truly, what other purpose could it serve other than to solidify such beauty in his life. The soul whom’s heart bleeds most, and the one worth ending any bloody war for. Here, at his side, drooling on his shoulder and so, so, so very _real._

__

_Philatos,_ he thinks, fully sure that were Atsumu to jolt up and flee into the night, Kiyoomi would follow. _Head, heart and soul, Philatos, most beloved._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me about either the volleyball anime or the tragic gays over at my tumblr @paper-lilypie!!
> 
> Thanks for reading, hun buns!
> 
> -Lily


End file.
